


The Nature of Reality

by Ferrera



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Bunker Era, Caring Dean Winchester, Dirty Talk, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s12e01 Keep Calm and Carry On, Episode: s12e02 Mamma Mia, First Time, Guilt, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Samulet Fix-It (Supernatural), Season/Series 12, Shame, Sharing a Bed, Sibling Incest, according to fanfic law I'm not allowed to tag this as slow burn, but I'm tagging it as slow burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-11-16 13:08:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20819894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ferrera/pseuds/Ferrera
Summary: If men define situations as real, they are real in their consequences.- W. I. Thomas & D. S. Thomas





	1. Prologue

> _Do you believe in love?_  
_Do you believe in shame?_  
_If love can conquer all  
_ _Then why do we only feel the pain?_
> 
> _I heard you speak my name_  
_Heard you singing The Stones_  
_Maybe heard you laughing_  
_In a line of static  
_ _On my telephone_
> 
> _So why your eyelids are closed_  
_Inside a case of rust_  
_And did you have to change_  
_All your poet's fire  
_ _Into frozen dust_

Sam doesn't know how long he's been sitting on the stairs, hugging his knees, resting his head against the wooden rail. His hands ache from banging on the door, his throat sore from screaming it raw, but other than that, his body mostly feels numb, the soreness he’d felt earlier dulled by the all-consuming ache for his brother. 

It's dark outside now, he absently notes, the sun no longer shining through the small basement window, and in this moment, that's the only thing he can be grateful for. He couldn’t stand to see the rays of light falling through the glass, to feel the warmth on his skin, not after Dean sacrificed himself, let himself be destroyed so that the sun could shine. He tilts his head up, looks out of the window, sees the stars and tries to count his tiny little blessings, but he knows that in the morning, the sun will rise again, and Dean will still be gone.


	2. Do You Believe in Shame?

  
The six-hour drive back home had been spent in a haze. Dean had told him to get some sleep, and soaking up the comfort of the Impala, the familiar smell of her, he’d dozed off a couple times, only to startle awake again at the voices echoing in his head— Toni, asking the same things over and over again, and then Ms. Watt, smirking at him, saying _are you really gonna make me do this? _as she lit the blowtorch. Every time he’d become aware of his surroundings again, he’d felt bewildered, confused at the sight of Dean behind the wheel, Mom riding shotgun.

Even though he’s had a few hours now to let it sink in that Dean’s not dead and that Mom’s back, it still hasn’t fully dawned on him. He still feels dazed, baffled at the sight in front of him. They’re all sitting at the map table in the war room now, eating the food Mary brought back. Sam still feels tired to the bone, slowly chewing his fried chicken, taking little sips of water after every piece he manages to finish. He should probably be hungry after three days with barely anything to eat, but he mostly feels sick, the heavy lump in the pit of his stomach making it hard to keep the food down. 

Dean’s been watching him ever since they sat down, has barely eaten anything himself. Neither of them is really engaged in the conversation Mom and Cas are having about how to deal with those British bastards. Sam tries to focus on his food, block their talking out, doesn’t want to hear them going on and on about the people he just wants to forget about for a while. 

He’d rather not have Mom around right now, if he’s honest, and not just because she keeps talking about Toni. It’s too much right now, having to figure out how to act around her, how to be her son again, after all these years. Dean doesn’t really know how to either, Sam can tell, instead focusing on him, but at least Dean _knows_ her, seems to find some familiarity, some sort of comfort in her presence. To Sam, she’s basically a stranger. 

The concerned look is clear on Dean’s face when Sam pushes his unfinished plate away and excuses himself. He averts his eyes from Dean’s as he stands up, and immediately he feels his blood pressure drop, his vision going spotty. His knees start to buckle, but before he can even find the back of the chair to hold on to, Dean’s by his side, gripping his shoulders tight, holding him up. 

“Easy there, Sammy,” he says, slipping a strong arm around Sam’s waist. “Cas might’ve healed you, but you’re not back to full strength yet.” 

Sam groans, murmurs, “I’m okay,” but he knows he can’t fool his brother. Can’t even fool himself. If only he could. 

“I’ll take care of him,” Dean tells Cas and Mom, “you guys go wash up, we’ll see you tomorrow morning.” He keeps an arm around Sam’s waist, supporting him as he practically carries him out of the room. 

“I can hold myself up,” Sam insists, even though it still feels as if his legs might give out any second, and Dean snorts, keeps his arm around Sam as they walk out of the war room, steering him down the hallway. 

When they enter the shower room, Dean flicks on the lights, tells him to get undressed. The light in the room is harsh, almost too bright on the white tiles, but Sam doesn’t complain, toes his shoes off, watches with squinted eyes as Dean picks a shower and cranks the hot tap, waiting for the water to heat up before opening the cold one a little as well. Sam peels his socks off and manages to undo the buttons of his flannel with uncoordinated, clumsy fingers, shoulders it off to drop it on the tiles. He drags the hem of his shirt up, the muscles in his arms and back straining as he pulls it over his head, but he manages, drops the shirt to the floor, breathing heavily from the effort. He unbuttons his jeans and slides them down his legs, kicks them off, stands there in just his boxers, watching Dean testing the water temperature. 

Dean steps away from the spray, making room for him. “There you go,” he says, wiping his hand on his shirt. Sam manages to take his boxers off without tripping over his own feet. He carefully shuffles past Dean, steps under the spray. He stands with his back to his brother, lets the hot water soak his hair and warm his body. Dean’s still standing behind him, he senses, feeling those green eyes on him. He turns around, brushes the wet strands of hair out of his face, looking up at Dean through the gathering steam from under dewy lashes. 

“Are you just gonna stand there,” he says, trying not to squirm under Dean’s gaze from the way his brother is watching him while he’s all naked and vulnerable. 

It’s not as if he’s never showered in Dean’s presence before. Back when they were still on the road all the time, sleeping in motel rooms, they’d fight over who would take the first shower after every particularly dirty hunt, but ever since they moved into the bunker, it’s no longer an issue. There are six shower heads in the open space, three on each side of the room. Dean usually picks the middle one on the left side. Sam picks one on the right. Never the middle one, though, always careful not to stand directly in Dean’s line of sight. 

He should be used to showering in Dean’s presence by now, but to be the only one who’s naked makes it worse, makes him overly aware of his own body, especially after everything he had to endure. 

“Nothin’ I haven’t seen before,” Dean says, shrugging, keeping his eyes on Sam’s. “C’mon, no big deal, Sammy. Just wanna make sure you don’t fall and hit your head on the tiles.” 

Sam huffs, but he takes the shampoo bottle Dean hands him, squeezes some out and starts lathering it into his hair with tired fingers. 

“Maybe we should get one of those shower chairs for old people,” Dean says conversationally, light in a way Sam can tell he’s trying to make him feel at ease. “I mean, given how often we come home battered and bruised. Might be useful.” 

Sam hums non-committedly, finishes massaging the shampoo in. He starts rinsing his hair out, eyes closed as the soapy water runs down his body. He tries to focus on carefully working the tangles out of his hair, tries to just soak up the warmth of the water beating down on his body. 

When he opens his eyes again, Dean’s standing a little closer. He hands Sam the shower gel and Sam takes it wordlessly, starts soaping himself up. He scrubs his chest, arms and pits clean slowly, thoroughly, trying to wash every single trace of that cold, dirty basement away. He watches the grimy water flowing down the drain, wishing every single memory of that damn place would be sucked down the void with it. 

He bows his head and closes his eyes, tries not to think of anything when he reaches his dick and his ass, but he feels his cheeks heating up nonetheless at the unignorable fact that Dean is still watching him. 

“Don’t you need a shower,” Sam mutters quietly, keeping his eyes on the tiles. 

“I’ll shower after I’ve put you to bed,” Dean says, like Sam is five years old. Sam huffs a little, but he doesn’t really have it in him to complain. He washes the last traces of shower gel away, turns the taps off. 

Dean hands him a big towel and Sam wraps himself in the soft white cotton the way he would when he was still a kid. When his upper body is dry and warm, he dries his legs, then wraps the towel around his hips, asks Dean for another one for his hair. Dean watches as Sam wraps his hair up in it, looking a little fascinated even though he’s seen Sam do it so many times before, and Sam thinks of teasing him, asking if he used to look at Lisa like that when she’d wrap her hair in a towel, or any other woman for that matter, but he keeps quiet. 

He still doesn’t feel right in his skin, still doesn’t feel as squeaky clean as he’d hoped. He wishes he could strip his whole outer layer off, wash his insides clean. 

“Wanna shave,” Sam says, rubbing a hand over the stubble on his face. He can’t stand the roughness, the scratch of it, just wants to be clean and smooth and soft like a newborn baby. 

“Sammy, c’mon, you’re still lookin’ pretty wobbly on those legs,” Dean says, “sleep now, shave later, okay?” but Sam shakes his head, a slightly panicked _no_ leaving his mouth. Dean looks at him for a moment, and Sam wants to explain, how he wishes he could shed his skin like dirty clothes, wash everything so thoroughly there are no stains, no traces of dirt left, throw away the parts that won’t ever get clean again, but he can’t really find the words, and after a moment of examination Dean says, “okay, fine, but you gotta let me help you.” 

Sam lets himself be guided towards the sink Dean knows he usually uses, holds onto the edge when Dean tells him to. He tries to get his body to relax while Dean prepares, opening the cabinet behind the mirror, taking out Sam’s razor and shaving cream. Dean runs the hot tap, wets his hand a little, brings it to Sam’s cheeks. His touch is softer than Sam expected. Sam’s fingers twitch against the porcelain a little. 

Dean shakes the can, squirts some shaving cream into his hand before applying it to Sam’s face. He’s being really gentle, more precise than he usually is, when Sam has seen him slathering the foam onto his own face haphazardly. When the foam’s spread to Dean’s liking, he washes his hands, picks up the razor. He tips Sam’s head to the side a little, starts just below his sideburns, slowly drawing the razor down his cheek, rinsing it after every stroke. 

He tilts Sam’s head up a little, and Sam sees his lips parting, tongue peeking out between his teeth as he carefully slides the razor along Sam’s jaw. A warm, fuzzy feeling bubbles up in Sam’s chest, and he closes his eyes, wills himself to just enjoy the way Dean’s taking care of him, the feeling of his gentle fingers on his face. Dean keeps dragging the razor slowly over his cheeks, through the hollow under his jaw, the sensitive skin around his lips, taking his time, fully focused on Sam. 

“There you go,” Dean murmurs when he’s finished, “you good now?” Sam hums in approval, mutters a thanks under his breath. Dean rinses the razor thoroughly, then steps aside so Sam can rinse the last traces of foam from his face. He pulls the towel off his head and uses it to dip his face dry, then hangs it on the hook by the mirror. 

“C’mon, let’s get you to your room,” Dean says, his hand warm and heavy on Sam’s bare lower back, and Sam lets himself be guided through the hallway again. His legs feel no longer shaky, just really, really heavy, and he could probably make it to his room without Dean’s support, but Dean’s got him in little brother mode now and after days of thinking he wasn’t someone’s little brother anymore, he just wants to savor the feeling, hold onto it for as long as he can. 

Dean opens the door to Sam’s room and orders him to sit down on the bed, starts rummaging through Sam’s drawers. Sam would tell Dean not to make a mess, but frankly, he can’t really find it in himself to care. So he sits, lets Dean handle everything. Dean tosses him a pair of boxers and Sam manages to put them on while Dean is still busy searching for something Sam can wear to bed. 

Dean closes the drawers and hands him a pair of sweatpants and Sam’s favorite long-sleeved grey shirt, watching as Sam puts the clothes on. When Sam’s dressed, his eyes are lingering on Sam’s bare feet. 

“Cold feet?” he asks, and— yeah, they are, though Sam hadn’t really realized before, his body mostly feeling heavy and vaguely sore, like Cas had healed him on the surface, but hadn’t been able to remove the soreness from his bones. 

“‘S fine,” he says, sitting back down on the bed, but Dean’s already rummaging around for socks. He tosses Sam a bundled-up pair that lands in his lap, his reflexes too slow to catch them, arms still feeling heavy. He pulls the socks on, grey cotton covering his pale, unblemished feet, but he still winces at the memory of the blowtorch. Dean sees it, murmurs under his breath, “that fucking bitch, gonna cut her head off if I ever see her again.” 

Sam crawls under the duvet, twists and turns a little to get comfortable, eventually rolling onto his side so he can still see Dean. His brother is standing a couple feet away from Sam’s bed, messing with the sleeves of his flannel, looking a little unsure as to whether Sam can be left alone now or still needs to be taken care of. 

“You gonna be okay?” Dean asks eventually, a faint frown visible on his forehead, even in the dim light. 

He knows he will be, even if he doesn’t feel like it right now. He’s had way worse. But somehow, he still can’t completely shake the anguish, the despair he’d felt in that basement, when he thought Dean had blown himself up to save the sun and the earth, when he’d believed there’d be no one left to save _him_. No matter how many times he tells himself they got him out, no matter how many glances he steals at his brother to convince himself he’s real, that little but heavy ball of panic won’t leave his chest. 

“I thought you were dead,” he whispers into the quietness of the room. 

Usually, his mind and gut tell him the same thing. Whether to run or not. Shoot or wait. Kill or let live. Now, it almost feels as if his senses aren’t connected to his mind anymore, as if he can’t fully convince himself that Dean is back, right here with him. He doesn’t quite dare to believe what he’s seeing, can’t be completely sure this isn’t another hallucination. 

“I thought there wasn’t anyone left to save me,” he says quietly, “no one left who cared about me.” 

Dean’s jaw clenches. He sits down on the bed, right next to Sam, rests a warm hand on his shoulder. 

“Sammy,” he murmurs, “‘m’sorry, wish we’d found you sooner.” 

Dean was gonna leave him behind for good. He was ready to leave Sam on his own in this world. And Sam doesn’t even blame him, not really. It’s always easier being the one offering yourself up than being the one left behind. 

“I thought— even if I’d get out, I wouldn’t have a life worth living. I didn’t think there’d be a way to bring you back after you’d blown yourself up with a soul bomb.” 

Dean’s stroking his upper arm like he used to do when Sam was little, comforting rubs that would calm Sam down whenever he was scared Dad wouldn’t be coming home, that monsters would’ve got him, and that the things that go bump in the night would come for Dean and him too. 

“Didn’t have to do it,” Dean says quietly, “c’mon, Sammy, it’s the past. We’re both here, both in one piece.” 

He doesn’t feel as if he’s in one piece. His body is, but his mind is in shatters, some pieces left behind in the barn. Even if he manages to glue the remaining fragments back together, he won’t be the same again. 

“I tried to talk to God,” he says, “but he didn’t answer my prayers.” 

Dean groans, scrubs a hand across his face. “Guess he took a break,” he mutters. 

Sam’d figured that after what they’d done for God, or _Chuck_, or whatever, after Dean had sacrificed himself to save everyone, that maybe God could help him out. But maybe that’d been selfish. It wasn’t Sam who’d sacrificed himself, after all. Why would God help him? 

“I almost gave up,” he says quietly, his eyes fixed on the wall. 

Faking his own suicide had been his last resort. When that hadn’t worked, when Toni locked that door on him again, only then he’d started crying, tears of helplessness and hopelessness, and once he’d started crying, he couldn’t stop, and finally the reality of Dean’s death had washed over him, hit him harder than ever before, leaving him sobbing on the cold, hard ground until he passed out from exhaustion. 

“I tried to trick her,” he says. “There was a mirror in the basement. I broke it when I— when I started seeing things. And I knew she was watching me, so I took the biggest shard. Pretended to slit my throat. A-and I thought it worked. She came down to check on me, but I— I messed up. I _had_ her, but I let her escape again. My only chance. I fucked it up.” 

Dean is quiet. He’s stopped stroking Sam’s upper arm, just resting it there, a warm, solid weight. 

“When faking it didn’t work, I— I only saw one way out. I knew if I’d try again, she wouldn’t come back down. But I was sure someone would just bring me back. I thought that maybe even _she_ could bring me back. She’s way more powerful than I’d thought at first.” 

“Christ, Sammy,” Dean says quietly. He’s started rubbing Sam’s arm again. Sam tries to relax into it, to just enjoy Dean’s touch, his closeness, but still something unsettles him. He feels clean, at least on the surface, and the mattress and sheets are so soft, and Dean’s hand is so nice and warm, so sure and comforting. His whole presence is almost unreal, too good to be true. 

Sam’s eyes are focused on the denim stretching over Dean’s thigh. His eyes feel heavy, but he has to keep them open, make sure Dean doesn’t disappear. He doesn’t want to fall asleep, not as long as Dean is sitting beside him, touching him; wants to savor every second of an intimacy he thought he’d never have again. 

Dean sees him struggle to keep his eyes open, murmurs, “Just go to sleep now, Sammy,” quietly, but Sam shakes his head, still as stubborn as he was all those years ago, when he refused to go to sleep when Dean told him to. _It’ll all be better when you wake up_. 

“Don’t wanna,” Sam mutters, but his eyes fall closed and his limbs start to feel heavier and heavier. Dean’s hand him feels so good, so safe, and he nuzzles his face into his pillow, the last tension in his body seeping away, but then Dean draws back, stands up, and Sam flinches, eyes flying open again, a croaked, pathetic _no_ leaving his mouth. Dean looks at him with a hint of confusion and surprise in his eyes, and Sam murmurs, “Just— please— I don’t want to be alone again,” and Dean sits back down, starts rubbing his back. 

“Shh, it’s okay,” he says, “I’m here, Sammy. I’ll stay with you ‘til you fall asleep.” 

Sam relaxes into the mattress, tries to ignore all the thoughts and memories in his head, tries to concentrate on nothing but Dean’s hand rubbing circles on his back, his even breathing, the warmth radiating from his body. 

Slowly but surely, his mind goes blank.  
  



	3. Do You Believe in Love?

> _Do you believe in shame?_  
_Do you believe in love?_  
_And if they taste the same_  
_Would you love again  
_ _Or abandon both?_

He drifts back into consciousness, slowly becoming aware of his body and surroundings again. There’s a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach, a voice in the back of his mind telling him something’s not quite right. He doesn’t recall falling asleep in a warm, soft bed in a low-lit room, and something feels off about the lack of sounds— there’s no leaking pipes, no rats rustling around or gnawing at wires, no creaking footsteps on the floor above him. There’s only the sound of calm, even breathing beside him, and as he turns on his other side, he recognizes the form of his sleeping brother. 

His confusion dissipates as he remembers standing under the spray in the shower room, Dean’s eyes on him; remembers being put to bed by his big brother afterwards. His body relaxes into the mattress. Dean stayed with him, he realizes, even after he drifted off. Fell asleep on top of the sheets, dressed and all, boots still on. 

_He’s really here with you_, Sam tells himself, _he didn’t die, and he came to save you, together with Cas and Mom_— 

_Mom_. In a moment of clarity, it hits him. He’s being messed with again. Panic rises in his chest, makes him break out in a sweat. He sits up in a rush, his vision going a little spotty as he looks around the room. It’s _his_ room, this time. Everything looks in place as he hastily scans the room— the shelfs on the wall, the sink and the mirrored cabinet by the door, the clutter of belongings on his desk. Dean’s gun on the bedside table, where he must’ve put it before he lay down. Dean’s still sleeping next to him, lying on his back, one arm propped behind his head. Sam blinks and blinks and blinks but nothing changes, pinches himself and barely feels it, doesn’t really feel anything except for the panic growing inside him, clawing at his throat as he can’t find a way to snap himself out of this. He doesn’t know what to do, anxiety clouding his senses, and in a haze he turns around, slams his fist into the wooden headboard. 

Dean startles awake next to him, sits up and grabs his Colt from the bedside table, points it at Sam, but then his features soften, shoulders relaxing, and he lets out a sigh as he lowers the gun. 

“Dude,” he huffs out, “what the _hell_.” His gaze drops to Sam’s scraped, slightly bloody knuckles, then goes back up to Sam’s face. “The hell did you do? You have a nightmare or somethin’?” 

Sam doesn’t feel any pain in his knuckles, just a vague, dull thrumming. He balls his hand into a fist, more blood welling up, but as he stares down at it, it seems foreign, doesn’t feel like his own. 

“Stop it,” Sam bites out as he looks back up at Dean, or the freaking vision of him Toni constructed. “Stop playing tricks on me.” 

“Sammy,” Dean starts, “what the hell are you talkin’ about?” He puts his gun on the bedside table, rubs a tired hand across his face. Sam eyes the Colt, reaches over, but before he can grab it, Dean sees through him, snatches it away, tugs it in the waistband of his jeans. 

“Whoa, easy there, Sammy. What—” 

“How do I know you’re not her,” Sam demands, his voice shaky. His whole body is trembling, he realizes, his jaw and shoulders clenched tight with tension. 

“Listen to me,” Dean says, and he sounds calm, his eyes demanding Sam’s full attention. “Cas, Mom and I found out where she held you—” 

“Mom’s dead,” Sam says, but Dean shakes his head. 

“She was,” he says, “she was, Sammy, but Amara brought her back. After I’d gotten her to reunite with her brother, she brought Mom back as a thanks, I guess. I know it sounds crazy, but listen to me. We found the barn, and I went in without much of a plan, hell-bent on finding you, but I fucked up. That British bitch got me. But Mom came to save us, would’ve shot her if this Ketch guy hadn’t showed. Said he’d take her back to London. Cas healed you, I drove us home. We’re back in the bunker. We ate, you had a shower. I put you to bed and when you asked me to stay, I stayed.” 

Sam averts his eyes, looking around the room for a clue, a little detail in the wrong place, something that’ll give her away. He sees his neatly ordered research material and his stack of books on the shelf along the wall, sees the old rotary phone he’s secretly fond of on his bedside table. The stationary on his desk is still in place, just like his toothbrush in a glass on the sink and the comb he put on top of the mirrored cabinet. 

Dean grabs him by the shoulders, shakes him a little. “Sammy, hey, look at me. This is all real. I’m real. I don’t know exactly what you went through back there, what the hell she did to you, but it’s over now.” He reaches for Sam’s hand, the one where he used to have his scar, but Sam flinches, tugs it away. 

“It’s really me, Sammy,” Dean says, eyes pleading. “Look, there’s a ton of crap I know about you she can’t know. You used to love it when I made you mac n cheese with marshmallow fluff back when you were a kid. You always wanted a dog, but Dad said we couldn’t have one ‘cause we moved around too much. In Flagstaff, after you ran away, you lived in this shack for two weeks with a dog you called Bones. You played soccer in middle school and won the division championship with your team. Dad kept the trophy in his lock-up outside Buffalo. You went through this magician phase when you were thirteen. You had a deck of cards and a wand and all, and you kept pullin’ coins out of my ear. You’re afraid of clowns, which is my fault, I guess, since I left you at Plucky’s a couple too many times. And you used to spend a lot of time at Bobby’s. One time, when Dad had sent me to Sonny’s boys’ home, you spent two months at his place. Bobby taught you some Spanish, and when I came back, you were crazy proud and kept throwing sneaky remarks at me I couldn’t understand.” 

He’s summing up facts at such a dazzling speed Sam can barely keep up, his head spinning. He tries to think straight, to figure out how she could’ve found out all these things about him, but she just— she can’t know all that, can she? Dad and Bobby, the only people beside Dean who might know these things about him, are dead, and Sam’s pretty sure Dad didn’t write the thing about clowns down in his journal— 

“Sam,” Dean says, his voice a little harsh, snapping him out of his train of thoughts, but when Sam looks him in the eyes again, they’re soft, understanding. “Bobby gave you an amulet when you were eight. You were gonna give it to Dad for Christmas, but when he didn’t turn up, you gave it to me. I wore it for the longest time, but I threw it away when I thought it couldn’t help us find God. But you kept it, all this time. And it did glow bright in his presence, after all.” 

Sam’s eyes drop to Dean’s chest, where for years and years he would always find the amulet. He used to miss seeing it there, after Dean threw it away. Still does, if he’s honest. Dean didn’t just throw it away because it didn’t work. He’d worn it for years without being aware of what it allegedly could do. He threw it away because at the time, he’d lost his faith in Sam. 

“Then where is it now,” Sam demands, “After we found God, I— Where is it now?” 

Dean shifts a little, reaches into the pocket of his jeans, his eyes not leaving Sam’s. He holds out his hand to Sam, and the leather cord with the little brass amulet dangles from his fingers. 

“Haven’t really had time to put it away,” he says, shrugging. 

Sam reaches out, holds the little head between his thumb and forefinger. It’s warm to the touch, and Sam finally, finally feels the anxiety in his chest dissolve, the haze in his mind slowly dissipating. 

Dean takes Sam’s hand, makes him hold his palm out, then drops the amulet right where his scar used to be. He closes Sam’s fingers around it, his own hand covering Sam’s. 

“This is all real. You’re home now. You’re safe. I won’t let her get near you again.” 

Sam tightens his hand around the amulet, feels the little horns digging into his skin. Dean wraps an arm around him, pulls him into a hug, their hands trapped between their chests, still wrapped around the amulet. Sam closes his eyes and sags against his brother’s strong body, soaking up the warmth, the comfort, the familiarity of him. 

“C’mon, lie back down,” Dean says after a while, pulling away. “Gotta go back to sleep, Sammy, you still look like death.” He pushes a little against Sam’s shoulder and Sam goes along, sinks back into the mattress. He turns on his side, facing the wall, holds the amulet to his chest. 

Dean pulls the duvet up, covers him. Sam listens to his brother taking off his boots and switching off the light, feels him getting under the sheets, lying down, shifting until he’s comfortable, until he’s pretty much spooning Sam. He wraps an arm loosely around Sam’s waist, his hand resting on Sam’s belly, just like he used to when Sam was still a kid, afraid of the dark. It almost seems like nothing’s changed at all, except— he knows what’s out there now, knows he has every reason to be afraid. Demons and vampires, shapeshifters and witches, archangels and all kinds of other creatures, even _humans_ have done things to him he couldn’t even imagine as a kid. 

“Don’t wanna sleep,” Sam mutters, eyes still fixed on the wall, wide open. “Don’t wanna wake up and feel all weird again.” 

“Sammy,” Dean murmurs, his voice soft, concerned. “What’d she do to you?” 

He’d told Dean what she wanted. Told him about her tactics. About the ice-cold showers, the scalpels and pincers, the starvation, the isolation and the monitoring. The blowtorch. But he couldn’t quite tell Dean about the tricks she played on him, about everything she made him see. Made him do. 

Sam’s fidgeting with the amulet, twisting the leather cord around his fingers until the circulation is almost cut off. 

“What’d she do to you, Sammy,” Dean murmurs again, the words muffled into Sam’s hair. Sam untangles the cord from his fingers, lets the blood flow back into his fingertips. Wraps the leather around them again, tries to curl it even tighter around his fingertips. 

“I told her I’d been tortured by— Lucifer,” he says quietly, “told her I wasn’t gonna break. Not from pain. And after the blowtorch, she believed me, I guess.” 

He tries to untangle his fingers, but he’s wrapped them up good. Dean’s just— waiting, quiet behind him. Sam struggles with the cord. It’s too dark to really see how the leather is twisted around his fingers, and Dean’s nuzzling his nose into Sam’s hair, which is more than a little distracting. He keeps plucking at the cord, and after a while he manages to slide it off his fingers. He cups the amulet in his palm, holds it to his chest again. 

“Instead, she started messing with my head,” he says. “She made me hallucinate.” He feels Dean’s arm tightening around him, his palm pressing a little firmer against Sam’s belly through the fabric of his shirt, but he doesn’t say anything, just sort of holds him. Sam’s safe space, right here in his big brother’s arms. Just like it has always been. 

“I guess it wasn’t even so bad,” Sam mutters. “It was nothing like when I— when I saw _him_. When I saw her, I— I didn’t feel scared or anxious. She was— kind. Pretended to be, at least. Trying to make me feel at ease.” 

Dean huffs a little, his breath warm against Sam’s neck. 

“She was— we were— in bed together,” Sam says, “in some kind of hotel room, I don’t even know. There were— freakin’ candles and wine and everything, all fancy.” He briefly closes his eyes, his jaw clenching. “We— we had sex.” 

“What the hell,” Dean murmurs, and Sam waits for him to say something more, make some lame joke about Sam’s imaginary sex life, maybe, but he stays quiet, keeps his arm wrapped tight around Sam, his nose still buried in his hair. 

“Afterwards, we were just talking, and then she started asking me about names and addresses again. About a organizational hierarchy, even, if we report to someone.” He snickers, and Dean does the same. “When she just kept nagging, I felt something was off, and then the memories of the things she’d done to me came back in flashes and I realized that— that I was dreaming or something, that it wasn’t real. And then, just like that, I was back in the basement, still tied to that chair. She said she’d used a spell. And she said she couldn’t do it again. That my brain would liquify.” He clenches his hand around the amulet, his scraped knuckles stinging. “She lied. She did it again. The second time, I was— I don’t even know, in some motel room God knows where, just like any motel room we’ve ever stayed in. And she was there with me again, but so— so were you.” 

He hears Dean sucking in a breath, but he still doesn’t say anything, just waits for him to continue. His hand’s still resting on Sam’s belly, warm and solid. When Sam stays quiet, Dean starts rubbing his thumb lightly over the fabric of Sam’s shirt, just the faintest touch. Encouraging him, Sam can tell, to give voice to the images flooding his mind. 

“We were on the bed,” he says, his voice a little shaky. “All of us. You— you were kissing her. Undressing her. And when you’d gotten her naked, you— you told her to get on all fours.” 

“Jesus,” Dean murmurs, and Sam’s cheeks flush hot, his pulse speeding up. He takes a deep breath, tries to calm himself a little. 

“Then we— we undressed each other,” he stutters out, closing his eyes as shame washes over him, his whole body lit like a furnace from within, skin feeling too tight, like it can’t contain all that gut-wrenching heat. He can’t tell Dean what happened, what they did, not in detail. Can’t tell him how good, how _real_ it felt when he stripped Sam of his clothes, his hands constantly brushing Sam’s skin, making him tingle all over. How bad Sam was shaking when he undressed his big brother, revealing all that smooth, bare skin, touching him in placed he’d never touched him before. 

“Sammy?” Dean asks when Sam remains quiet. He’s stopped stroking Sam’s belly. Sam’s body is damp with sweat, radiating heat, but Dean doesn’t move away, keeps his arm around Sam, his hand still on his stomach as he waits for Sam to keep talking. 

The thing is— he can talk about her, but he can’t talk about _them_. Embarrassment takes a hold of him as he remembers how intently he’d been watching Dean as he positioned himself behind her, stroking himself to full hardness; the shame he feels as he remembers how impossibly hard he’d gotten at the sight of his big brother locking up his throat. 

“She was just— patiently waiting on all fours like you told her to,” he says, his voice thin and a little squeaky, sounding foreign to his own ears. He’s fumbling with the cord again, twisting it around his thumb now. “And you— you started fucking her from behind,” he manages, leaving out how he couldn’t keep his hand off his dick and started stroking himself, how their eyes had been glued to one another the whole time. How he pretty much forgot he was supposed to participate as well until Dean had groaned _c’mon Sammy, wanna see you fuck her mouth_. He’d shuffled closer, stroked his painfully hard dick a couple more times before tipping her face back a little, pushing the slick head of his cock past her lips, but he couldn’t really concentrate on the feeling of her mouth around him, not with Dean looking at him, locking eyes with him. 

“Fuck, Sammy,” Dean groans. Sam feels it vibrating against his skin, feels Dean’s fingers twitching against his belly a little. 

“You were just— fucking her, telling her what to do. How to make me feel good.” 

_Open up wide, sweetheart. Big cock like that needs to be taken care of. Be a good girl for my brother now, would ya?_

It’s crazy how well she captured Dean’s personality in the hallucinations she created, how he was so exactly Sam’s full-of-swagger big brother who pours his heart and soul into everything he does, that during the whole act Sam never suspected a thing. How she knew what Dean was like, he’s still not sure. Neither does he know how she even came up with the whole scenario. When it was over, he’d panicked, thinking she could read his mind, and he’d freaked out at the thought of her knowing everything about him, every dirty little secret, but then he realized she’d have instant access to all the names she’d been asking for if she could really look inside his head like that, and he’d calmed down a little. 

“Sammy?” Dean murmurs, and Sam realizes he’d fallen quiet, got a little lost in thoughts. Dean’s stroking his belly again, soft little movements that make Sam’s stomach tighten and his skin tingle. He can’t talk, hides his face in the pillow. Maybe she _is_ good, he thought eventually. Maybe she can tell a man who thinks he just lost his brother from a man who believes he’s lost his whole world. 

“You can tell me what happened,” Dean says, his voice soft, understanding. God, Dean’s been so good to him, trying to help Sam slowly work through the mess of thoughts and memories in his head; been trying so hard to make him feel at ease in his own body again. The showering and shaving, and now the spooning and little touches, the things he’s been saying. All of it is meant to comfort him, Sam knows, but being so close to Dean doesn’t exactly make it easier to talk about his hallucinations. 

“Sammy,” Dean murmurs, “Not gonna freak me out, little brother. Hell, I’ve suggested having a threesome with some pretty girl a couple times, haven’t I.” 

“While you were drunk off your ass,” Sam mutters, the words muffled into the pillow. 

Dean huffs, shifts a bit, but he stays close to Sam, keeps his arm around Sam’s waist and his hand on Sam’s belly. 

“Well,” he says eventually, “doesn’t mean I didn’t mean it,” and Sam’s stomach flips, muscles jumping under Dean’s hand, his heart in his throat, body glowing red-hot. 

They’re quiet for a while. Sam’s trying to let Dean’s words sink in, and Dean is— well, he doesn’t know what Dean’s thinking, but he’s idly stroking Sam’s belly, like all he wants is for Sam to feel at ease, leaving it up to him if he’s gonna talk or not, and slowly, Sam’s heart stops hammering and he starts feeling like he fits into his skin again. 

“It seemed so real,” Sam whispers, “you were so _you_, all confident and bold while I was— nervous and unsure, clumsy when I undressed you, and you said I was— that I was shaking like a leaf.” 

“Doesn’t sound like you,” Dean murmurs, his hand coming to a rest, palm pressing warm and firm against Sam’s belly. “I’ve seen you with girls, Sammy, you’re all over them, dragging those big hands up and down their bodies, nowhere near shy.” 

“I would be, if— if you were there, if we were gonna— have sex with a girl together,” Sam stammers. _If I was about to see you naked. If I would be allowed to touch you._ “You’re my big brother. I can’t help comparing myself to you.” 

“Christ, Sammy,” Dean murmurs, “have you _seen_ yourself? Freakin’ sex god body, that’s what you’ve got.” Sam’s stomach flops and pulls, his cheeks burning, pulse spiking up again. “C’mon, man, you’re not my thirteen-year-old geeky little brother anymore. You know how to make those girls feel good, don’t you, with those big fucking hands and everything.” 

“_Dean_,” Sam croaks, all that big-brother-praise getting him all embarrassed, and below that, there’s a winding coil of arousal low in his belly, and as Dean nuzzles against the nape of his neck again, it spreads through him, his whole body tingling with it, and it’s— it’s just all too much. Being back here in the bunker with Dean, sharing a bed like they haven’t in years. The warmth of his body, the way he’s holding Sam, touching him, all while clarifying that he was freaking serious when he’d said he’d totally have a threesome with Sam and some girl, while saying that Sam’s got a body like a sex god and knows how to use it. 

“Shh, Sammy,” Dean murmurs, “didn’t mean to make you feel embarrassed.” His hand slips down Sam’s body, finds the bare skin of Sam’s hip where his shirt has ridden up, and he rests it there, easy, like he really thinks it’ll calm Sam down instead of making him fall apart at the seams. What feels like a thousand different emotions take a hold of him, shame, embarrassment and anxiety mixing with fondness and love and that all-consuming, gut-wrenching desire for his big brother. On top of that, there’s Dean’s hand on his bare hip, making him tremble from overstimulation even though Dean’s barely touching him. A pathetic little whimper slips past Sam’s lips and he cringes at the sound of it, his body going rigid against Dean’s. 

“Sammy?” Dean asks, a little unsure, his hand leaving Sam’s hip, and another sorry little sound escapes Sam at the loss of it. “You okay?”  
  
Sam buries his face into the pillow, can only shake his head, eyes shut tight. There are tears prickling in his eyes now, and he’s trying hard to bite them back. It’s all so fucking overwhelming. It feels as if his body barely knows how to deal with all the emotions, all Dean’s tender touches, and he feels lost, feels like he can’t keep his mind or body under control. 

He’d only been held in the barn for three days, Dean said, but Sam barely believed him. At some point, after she’d left him alone in the basement the first day, he’d fallen asleep, and when he’d woken up, he’d lost all sense of time. The hallucinations made it worse, only adding to his confused state. When Dean had appeared at the top of the stairs, he thought he’d been trapped in the basement for weeks. Felt as if he’d spent _weeks_ living with the pain of losing his brother, in absolute despair, thinking there was no one left to save him.

“Sammy,” Dean says, a hint of panic in his voice, “hey, Sammy, what’s wrong?” 

After they got out and Cas healed him, he thought he’d be okay. Only now, he realizes how much everything that happened had truly affected him. And half of it wasn’t even real, only happened in his mind. Somehow, that just makes it worse. 

“I’m— I—” he stammers, “She— it messed me up. It really messed me up.” He feels his cheeks and the pillow getting wet, but Dean can’t see his face and he’s not sobbing, so maybe his brother won’t really be able to tell he’s crying. “I thought— I thought I had been in there for _weeks_. I’d lost all sense of time. The hallucinations— they got me so confused.” 

Dean’s hand has moved to his back, rubbing soothingly like he used to do so often when Sam was really, really little, when he could still cry his eyes out over scraped knees and torn books, over having to say goodbye to Dad without knowing when he would see him again. 

“We don’t have to talk about what she did,” Dean says, “I didn’t mean to— We can let it rest.” 

“‘S not just that,” Sam mutters, “It’s just— For _weeks_, I thought you were dead. For weeks I thought there was no one left to save me.” 

“Sammy,” Dean starts, sounding a little hesitant, “I told you, you’d only been in there for—” 

“For three days, I know, but it felt like an eternity. No matter how many times I tell myself it was only three days, I can’t shake the feeling that I’d been held there for so much longer. If anything, the fact that it was only days makes it worse, as if— as if I’m making this bigger than it is. As if I’m overreacting. Feels like I can’t even tell my body that it wasn’t so bad. Y-you touched my skin and my body reacted as if I hadn’t felt a safe, familiar touch in weeks.” 

He could see himself in the mirror, in the basement. Could see a relatively familiar face with just a little bit of stubble, and logically, he knew that meant he couldn’t have been held in the barn for long. But then his mind would start wandering, imagining all the things she could’ve done to keep his stubble short, just so he wouldn’t be able to tell how long she’d been holding him captive, just to mess with him, and eventually, he’d start doubting whether his reflection was even real. 

“It’s okay,” Dean says, still rubbing Sam’s back, “it’s okay, Sammy. We both know how bad some places, how bad some experiences can fuck you up. Even if it turns out the worst parts happened only in your mind.” 

As far as Sam knows, Dean never had anyone messing with his mind quite like Sam had, when Lucifer was all he could hear and see. Still, Dean’s been through enough. He too knows what it’s like when someone makes your mind play tricks on you. Sam still remembers the two of them talking themselves into that psychiatric hospital in Oklahoma, exposing themselves to the Wraith sucking the patients’ brains empty. They’d underestimated that one. She got them good, really screwed them up. Sam had never seen his brother so fragile before, so paralyzed with fear, wasting away. 

“I mean, I’ve never— not like you,” Dean says. “Alastair was never in my head the way— you know. He wasn’t with me the way Lucifer was with you, basically sitting on your shoulder all day and all night. After Hell, I only saw Alastair a couple times, and that was bad enough. Even when it was me doing the torturing, it was a nightmare. But I never saw him while he wasn’t there. It was just his memory haunting me.” 

Dean never talks about Alastair. Sam only remembers him talking about Hell once, after Cas and Uriel came for Anna. After Alastair had told him he’d been the one who broke the first seal. It can’t have been a coincidence that only then, he couldn’t keep the tears from falling any longer. He probably won’t ever ask Dean, but he suspects that what still torments his brother, more than the memory of the physical torture, is the fact that he broke. That he failed where John held out, that _he_ was the righteous man the demons had been waiting for. 

Dean’s quiet. He’s stopped rubbing Sam’s back, like he’s thinking, maybe. Back with Alastair, probably, and Sam cringes a little, wants to apologize for bringing this up, for making him go back there, but then Dean says, “I know what it’s like to have someone mess with your head, painting you a picture that ain’t real. And I think even good places or good experiences can fuck you up, if it turns out they only existed in your mind.” 

Sam remains quiet, needs a moment to let those words sink in. _What_ _do_ _you_ _mean_, he wants to ask, but then he realizes— Dean knows what it’s like when someone gives you what you want, only to take it away again. Dean will probably never admit it, but Zachariah had given him what his heart desired, way back: a clean conscience, no deaths to his name. A life where he was more or less his own boss, a job where he didn’t have to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. He’d been angry, the weeks after, on edge, aggressive. Started drinking more, and even with a couple whiskeys under his belt, he wouldn’t talk to Sam. And Sam had always thought he was angry at Zachariah for how the angel had played tricks on them, used them as his puppets. Only now, he realizes that more than anything, Dean had been mad because Zachariah had given him an easier life, only to take it away from him again. 

Dean shifts a little closer, loosely wraps his arm around Sam’s waist again. Sam tries to get his body to relax, to just enjoy the feeling of Dean’s body flush to his, but it’s still making his chest feel too tight and his skin tingle all over. 

“I know how hard it can be to move on,” Dean says, quiet, and— yeah. Zachariah. “Doesn’t matter if it was three days or three weeks. It’s okay if you need this now.” He moves his hand down, tentatively places it on Sam’s bare hip again. “That’s why I stayed with you.” 

They’re quiet for a long time. Sam doesn’t know how much time passes, still doesn’t really trust his own experience on that. Most of the tension in his body has finally seeped away, he realizes after a while, and a good part of all the feelings that had a hold of him have drifted away from the surface, no longer making him feel as if every single little touch will send him over the edge. 

“Go back to sleep, Sammy,” Dean murmurs into his hair, “I’ll stay with you, promise,” but Sam shakes his head, doesn’t want to, not now, after Dean’s been there for him all night, been listening to everything he’d dared to get off his chest. Not now that Dean’s opened up a little as well. 

“She— she was so sly,” he starts, willing himself to keep going, not wanting the conversation to die out. “She had this whole plan.” He’s dropped the amulet, he realizes, feels around until he’s found the cord again, gathers it in his palm. “After we were— finished with her, we just lay in bed. She was between us. And you, you started to ask me some seemingly random questions. First about Garth, about Claire. Eileen, too. Then about the ones who— yeah. Bobby, Ellen, Jo. Charlie.” Dean groans quietly, murmurs something under his breath. Sam clenches his fist around the amulet. “She’d made herself passive, of no importance. J-just a girl for two brothers to fuck. She pretended to fall asleep while listening to us talking about other hunters. But— I don’t know, something just felt off. We barely talk about other hunters, right. Let alone the ones we failed to save. It just seemed stranger and stranger, and eventually I snapped out of it again.” 

“Christ,” Dean murmurs, starts rubbing his thumb across Sam’s hip again. “She keep tryin’ after that?” 

Sam feels his cheeks heating up. Closes his eyes, nods. 

“She invite that side chick of hers, with the combat boots and the brass knuckles?” 

It’s supposed to make him relax, Sam knows, Dean’s way to lighten the mood a little, make him feel more at ease, but instead, his stomach tightens and he feels a little sick, because it’s just _that_ much worse. 

Dean feels him tensing, probably, murmurs “Hey, Sammy,” as he keeps rubbing little circles into Sam’s hip, “I didn’t mean— you don’t have to talk about what happened. What she did. We don’t have to talk about her at all. But if you wanna, I’ll listen. You know that.” 

“It wasn’t about her,” Sam whispers, “that’s the thing.”

Even when it had been the three of them, even if she’d been the one right in the middle, it hadn’t been about her. When Dean fucked her, he’d been solely focused on Sam, making sure he was being taken good care of. When Sam had put a hand in Toni’s hair, doing what he thought he should be doing, he’d been aching to touch his brother instead. When Dean came with a low groan, Sam’s eyes had been glued to his face, transfixed on those fluttering lashes and his open mouth, and all he’d wanted to do was to kiss his brother. It hadn’t been about her, not at all. She’d played it smart. Sam’s not even sure they made her come. After Dean had pulled out of her, he’d told Sam it was his turn. _C’mon, wanna see you fuck her with that big cock of yours. Wanna see you fill her up_. And while Sam had done as he was told, Dean had been talking to him in that low, gravelly tone that made Sam’s spine tingle and his skin feel too tight, kept talking and talking until the sound of his voice and the goddamn filth he’d spewed out had pushed Sam over the edge. 

Dean’s quiet, now, and he’s stopped stroking Sam’s hip. “What do you mean,” he says, careful, considerate. 

Sam shakes his head. There’s just no way he can tell Dean about what Toni came up with when that scenario didn’t work out for her, can’t tell Dean without letting him see inside. He feels like he’s thirteen years old again, questioned by Dean about his non-existent love life. _You ever kissed a girl, Sammy? No? What about that cute blonde you did that project with then? Hey, it’s okay, I don’t mean that you’re behind or anything. You ever touch yourself?_

Dean talking like that had gotten him all hard back then, only adding to the humiliation, and fuck, it’s not much different now. Dean’s so close, and his body feels so strong and safe and _good_, and all the things he’d said to Sam earlier won’t leave his head. It’s a mess up there, his mind still in shreds. He didn’t think it could possibly be worse than what Toni had managed, but it turns out Dean’s not exactly been gluing the pieces back together. 

“What do you mean, Sammy,” Dean asks again, but Sam shakes his head, croaks out, “M’sorry,” all the words to explain what happened, what they did stuck in his throat, shame and fear keeping them locked there. 

His fingers are twisted tight into the cord of the amulet again and he can’t even remember doing that. He feels so freaking out of it. The past few days he’d felt either numb or anxious and hopeless, and now it’s almost as if he can’t deal with the overwhelming intensity of all these positive emotions coming back. The immense feeling of love and safety of having Dean back with him again is all tangled up with the arousal from the memory of his hallucinations and Dean’s closeness, all piling on top of the anxiety and shame still coiling in the pit of his stomach instead of chasing them away. 

“It’s okay, Sammy,” Dean murmurs, “we can drop it. I just don’t want you to feel bad about what she did to you. What she made you do.” 

He’s snuggling up closer to Sam, pulling him in, his hand low on Sam’s belly now, and Sam freezes, croaks, “Dean, don’t, _don’t_,” eyes shut tight as if that’ll help to make Dean pull away. 

“Sammy, what’s wrong,” Dean says, sounding all confused and worried, and he’s pulling away from Sam, sitting up a little, but only to tug at Sam’s shoulder in an attempt to make him roll over. “Hey, Sammy, look at me.” 

Sam won’t move, _can’t_ move, almost paralyzed with the waves and waves of shame washing over him, a flood that can’t be stopped, leaving his whole body burning hot and prickling with sweat. He turns his head away from Dean, tries to hide his face in the pillow. He feels the mattress dip, feels Dean sitting up straight. “Sammy, hey,” he murmurs, and his eyes won’t fucking leave Sam, he can feel them burning right through him, and if he keeps looking, keeps pushing just a little, he will see past all the walls Sam so carefully built over the years, see everything Sam’s always tried to hide from him. 

“What’s wrong,” Dean asks, a panicky edge to his voice, and he grabs Sam by the shoulder and pulls again, hard enough this time to make Sam roll over on his back a little, enough for him to see— 

“Don’t touch me,” Sam croaks out, and Dean says, “Sammy, what—” but then he falls silent, lets out a quiet “oh,” and draws his hand back, lets Sam rolls back onto his side. 

He’s never felt so ashamed before. Not even when he had to face Toni again after her little trips inside his head had he felt this bad, as if his whole body is agonizingly slowly being consumed by the shame burning under his skin, gnawing at his insides, leaving only his conscience intact. 

“Sammy,” Dean says, leaving some space between them as he lies back down and makes himself comfortable again, “hey, it’s okay, that’s— that’s okay. Whatever she came up with— It’s okay if you liked it. Nothing to be ashamed about.” 

Sam keeps shaking his head. “It got worse,” he bites out, his voice all hoarse. He feels Dean shifting a little closer again, but his brother keeps some space between them, this time, and he doesn’t wrap an arm around Sam either. He can’t feel Dean’s body warmth anymore, and he squeezes his eye shut, clenches his jaw, silently cursing himself for screwing everything up. 

“You can tell me, Sammy,” Dean says quietly, and he sounds— at a loss, sort of, like he doesn’t know what more he can do for Sam, how to comfort him. Which is no fucking wonder. _Either you tell him or you don’t_, he tells himself, _but don’t leave him hanging and let him think he is the one fucking up. _Sam knows that if he doesn’t tell Dean now, neither of them is gonna bring it up ever again, and the memories of the things that never really happened will rot inside him forever. 

Dean very, very carefully rests a hand on Sam’s hip again, on top of the sheet this time, but still, and Sam can’t believe he’s _doing_ that, as if it’s not weird as hell for two brothers in their thirties to lie in bed like this, as if one of them having a hard-on is no reason for the other to back the fuck off, and Sam starts to believe Dean really meant it when he said Sam wouldn’t freak him out, starts to believe that there really isn’t anything he can say now that would push Dean away. 

“When she realized I would never give her the intel she wanted, she— she disguised herself as you,” he stutters, eyes closed. Dean lets out an offended little huff. He shifts a little, closer again now, close enough for Sam to feel his presence even though their bodies still aren’t quite touching. 

“We were— we were in the bunker, i-in your bedroom. It all seemed so real. Everything was in place. Your records on the shelf, your guns and blades on the wall. Even your shirts hanging from the hooks by the door and your toothbrush in the glass on the sink.” 

She’d seen Dean’s room, he’d realized much later. Before she’d confronted Cas and him in the war room, she’d been snooping around in the bunker. The thought that she’d been there, mapping the layout, the arrangement of the furniture and all the little details in her head, maybe even been here, in his own room, upsets him more than he’d like to admit. 

Despite the nausea spreading in his stomach at the thought of Toni intruding their home, he’s still hard. Dean’s not giving him any pause, slowly stroking his hip through the sheet. His face is really close, Sam realizes, his nose buried in Sam’s hair. He feels Dean’s warm breath against his neck when he murmurs, “It’s okay, Sammy, you can tell me, not gonna freak me out.” 

Sam’s heart is beating in his throat. He clenches the amulet tightly in his sweaty palm, wills the sickness in his belly and his hard-on to go away. 

“We w-were in your bed,” he whispers, “memory foam and all.” He can still recall the familiar smell of Dean’s room, the feeling of his knees sinking into the cloud-like material. “Y-you were undressing me, a-and when you’d gotten me naked, you— you laid me down a-and you started— started touching me.” 

He’s had dreams like that for years. For more than a decade, probably. Dean and him, together in bed, undressing each other, touching, _kissing_. From time to time he would wake up hard and leaking, disgusted with himself, unable to look into the mirror whenever he decided to lock himself up in the bathroom so he could rub one out. He would try to concentrate on nothing but the feeling of his hand around his dick, not allowing his mind to wander back to those dreams, to those vague, hazy flashes of Dean’s hands on his bare chest, his stomach, his thighs, his ass; tried to block out the memory of the feeling of Dean’s mouth against his and a strong, sure hand wrapped around his cock, but the harder he tried, the more persistent they’d become, and together with his orgasm, guilt and shame would wash over him. 

_Guilt is what you feel when you did something bad. Shame is what you feel when you _are_ bad._

During his first year at Stanford, he’d taken an Introduction to Psychology course. To hear their professor saying that out loud while Sam was sitting in the lecture hall, surrounded by his fellow students, he’d thought he would die of shame. Because it _was_ shame that he felt whenever he so much as looked at his brother. He felt guilt every time he gave in to his sick urges and got himself off to the fucked-up fantasies playing in his head, but much, much more persistent than that was the shame that was always sitting heavy in the pit of his stomach, because he _was_ bad, at his very core. 

Over the years, those dreams about his brother became more of a comfort to him, especially during the periods he had to spend without Dean, believing he was dead. They made him feel closer to his brother, though deep down, even asleep, he always knew they weren’t real, that he’d wake up any minute and Dean would be gone. 

The hallucinations weren’t like his dreams— they weren’t snippets and flashes, bits and pieces, but coherent, detailed, and he couldn’t tell them apart from reality. When he snapped out of them, there was no comfort, just the immense feeling of shame accompanied with the humiliating feeling that he’d been played, that Toni knew his deepest desire, his darkest secret, and that she was using it against him, her favorite torture device. 

“I thought it was real,” he whispers, “you were kissing me and I thought it was real.” 

The last hallucination she’d created didn’t feature any interrogations. She’d only wanted to mess with him, hit him where she knew it’d hurt most. 

“You were on top of me, leaning down on your forearms to kiss me,” he says. “You were pressing against me and I felt— we were both hard. And I didn’t feel ashamed. It seemed perfectly normal. And we both wanted— I wanted you to—” 

He still can’t say it, but he doesn’t really need to. Dean gets the gist of it. 

“Jesus, Sammy,” he says, his voice hoarse, “how’d she come up with that?” 

He’d asked her the same thing. Sitting tied to that chair, he’d spitted out, _what_ _the hell did you do, why come up with something like that_, and for the first time she’d smiled at him, for the first time he’d felt that all-consuming panic rising in his chest, and she’d said, _oh, please, Sam, don’t act as if it disgusted you. I saw the way you looked at your brother during our little ménage à trois_, confirming what Sam had been afraid of. 

_Oh Sam, what if he knew?_

“Sammy?” 

_How long have you been pining after him? What would he say if I’d tell him how much you enjoyed that little affair?_

_He’s dead. My brother is dead, bitch._

_You keep saying that, Sam, but I think he still might be out there. And if I do find him, believe me, I’ll take great pleasure in letting him know how you really feel about him._

“Sammy,” Dean says, a little firmer, but there’s no sharp edge to his voice. He’s still so close, keeps his nose buried in Sam’s hair, not pulling away. 

Dean’s softened over the years. If anything, it seems like ever since Hell, he’s been slowly turning back into the caring, empathic boy he used to be when they were kids. The boy who would comfort Sam whenever he was upset or hurt, who used to dote on him, tried to give him everything his little heart desired. Who taught him to read, to ride a bike, to swim and so much more, all with tireless patience. Who would play made-up games with him all day and make up monster-free bedtime stories for him. The boy who would climb into his bed late at night if he still couldn’t sleep, snuggling up close, his arm wrapped around Sam. The boy John didn’t want him to be. 

As they grew older, Dean had lost that softness, or so Sam thought. During his teens, he’d started to act more like Dad, took over his no-nonsense attitude, no longer leaving room for emotions and empathy, no longer talking to Sam about what was on his mind. And Sam kept trying, kept talking to his brother, not wanting to let Dad turn Dean into somebody he wasn’t. Kept trying to no avail, because Dean had probably made up his mind— if he wanted their dad’s approval, he needed to be more like him. And eventually, when Sam realized that the way he felt about Dean was anything but okay, he’d shut down as well, had withdrawn into himself, and Dad ran the military household he’d always envisioned, leaving no room for the love and affection they both sought. 

And yet here they are, in their own home, in Sam’s bed, closer than they’ve been in years. Really talking to each other, slowly but surely revealing some parts of themselves they’d pushed away for so long, all while being snuggled up close together. Dean hadn’t lost that softness. He’d been hiding it. 

All these years, Sam believed he had to keep Dean from finding out how he really felt about him. Believed that if Dean would find out, it would change the relationship between them for good, break up the strong bond they’d always had. That the shame of him knowing how Sam felt about him would be unbearable. That his disgust, his disappointment, maybe even his pity, would make Sam crumble at his foundations, reduce him to what he already knew he was: a sick, pathetic freak, so tangled up in his relationship with his brother that he’d be nothing without him. 

He’d carried those fears around ever since he started feeling this way about his brother. Has felt ashamed about who he is for so long that he can’t remember what it’s like not to feel bad about himself. And suddenly, it feels like he can finally stop carrying this weight on his shoulders without ruining what they have; feels like his most shameful desire might not bother Dean as much as he always thought it would. Like Dean could be okay with having a brother as screwed in the head as Sam. 

“She knew,” he whispers, eyes closed even though Dean can’t see his face. “When we had— when it was the three of us, she saw right through me. She disguised herself as you because she knew you were my weak spot. She knew I wanted it. Wanted you.” 

Dean stops stroking him and Sam’s heart stops beating. He’s never felt a heavier weight on his skin than Dean’s hand on top of the duvet, still resting on his hip. 

“Sammy,” Dean brings out, “what— you mean you’re down for a threesome as well but without the girl?” and he sounds so genuinely confused that Sam would laugh if he wasn’t on the verge of flowing over, but instead, his heart swells with fondness, and some of the tension in his body seeps away.  
  
“Not just that,” he whispers into the dark, the amulet pressed to his lips, “wish that I could be more than just a brother to you.” 

“_Sammy_,” Dean says, and Sam’s never heard him say his name like that before, so ethereal and full of yearning at once, “Sammy, turn around, c’mon, I need to see you.” He’s pulling at Sam’s shoulder again and Sam lets go of the amulet, goes along, twists under the sheets until he’s facing Dean. Dean looks— incredulous, like he doesn’t quite know what to make of Sam’s words, his eyes all big and wide, flickering all over Sam’s face, lips slightly parted like he can’t quite find words to respond to Sam’s confession, but then he says, “Sammy, you already are.” 

Sam’s just staring at him, trying to interpret those words, to look for cues on his face, in the twist of his mouth and the frown on his forehead and the depths of his eyes, but somehow, his brain doesn’t seem to be working, and all he can do is look at his brother. 

“C’mon, Sammy, don’t be stupid,” Dean says, his eyes soft, almost pleading. “You’re smarter than this. I mean— after Amelia, we pretty much agreed there was no room for anyone else in our lives, right? Not while we were still hunting. And— I don’t know, I just— I knew then that there would be no one else in my life, ever. I’ll die hunting. And until then, it’s just you.” 

Sam knows that, logically. He knows Dean won’t retire, knows he still wants that blaze of glory, wants that _with_ _him_. He knows that Dean’s given up on ever having a wife, a family. Given up on that a long time ago. After Lisa, probably. And still— 

“And maybe— honestly, it’s always been like that for me. I was four when Dad shoved you into my arms and told me to run. From then on, I gave up everything for you. I always knew I couldn’t love anyone else as much as I love you. Sammy, you know that, you _know_ I’ve always put you first. You know there’s never really been room for anyone else. I tried, with Lisa, but even when I thought you were dead, I couldn’t make it work. And as soon as you showed up again, I dropped everything. And it was damn hard to leave Lisa and Ben behind. But it was the only choice I could make.” 

Dean’s talking and talking, and Sam can barely keep up with the words pouring out of him. Dean’s hands have come up to Sam’s chest, fingers twisted into the fabric of his shirt, pulling, keeping him right there, like he wants to make sure Sam will hear every word he says. 

“And then you and Amelia— C’mon, Sammy, ‘s not like you didn’t notice I was jealous of her. Ever since we got back on the road together after Jessica, I’d been afraid that there would come a day where you would leave me for a girl, for the apple pie life for good, and I thought you’d finally found it with Amelia. But after you cut ties with her and I did the same with Benny, I thought you’d committed yourself to me, too. And I sort of started seeing us as— as lovers, in a way. In multiple ways. We’d made the silent agreement that there couldn’t be a girl in our lives as long as we’d be hunting. We settled down here, in the bunker. And eventually, after the Trials and Gadreel, after the Mark and the crap I pulled as a demon, we started to trust each other again, and we got that comfort back, where we could just sit in the car or the library and enjoy each other’s company for hours on end, like it was all we ever needed.” 

He’s right, Sam knows, it’d been exactly like that, and yet Sam never dared to interpret it as— 

“I’ve always felt like we were more than just brothers. But from then on, I started to feel as if we were almost like— like a married couple. Minus the sexual aspect, I guess. I figured that’s where we drew the line. And I thought you felt the same, Sammy. Please, don’t tell me I’ve been imagining things.” 

Sam can’t believe what he’s hearing. There’s a fire smoldering in his belly and Dean’s feeding it with every word he says, causing it to spread through Sam’s whole body. He feels dizzy, almost delirious with the overwhelming enormity of what Dean’s just said. 

“Dean— I— I never knew you saw it like that. I-I thought it was all about me being your little brother, and you trying to keep me safe. And you not wanting to be hunting alone, I guess. You wanting me to be right there with you all the way. And from an objective point of view, I knew what it looked like. Two brothers who barely stray from each others’ side. Who live together. Who failed to have healthy, lasting relationships with women. Who devoted their lives to each other, who would sacrifice themselves for each other over and over again, not in the last place because they couldn’t stand to live without the other. And in the church, for you to commit yourself to me like that, to say it out loud— that was all I could ask for, and still I wanted more. But I— I never dared to get my hopes up. I didn’t want to be the one imagining things. I didn’t want to be disappointed. I didn’t want be the one hoping for more to no avail.” 

“Sammy, I thought that was me. I thought I shouldn’t push my luck. To have you here with me, right by my side every single day of my life, choosing me over anyone else, single-mindedly devoted to our common goal, that’s— that’s more than I deserve. I couldn’t ask more of you.” 

“I want to give you more,” Sam says, “Dean, don’t say you don’t deserve— you deserve all I have. And I will— All that I have to give, I will give to you. I don’t want anyone else. I’ve— I’ve never really wanted anyone else. Anyone I’ve ever been with— they were all nothing but a poor substitute for you.” 

Jess, Ruby, Amelia— they’d been nothing but a poor attempt to fill the emptiness his brother left behind. He’d lied to himself, told himself that he could move on, but in his bones, he always knew that he was running from himself. And the few girls he’d slept with over the past years— he’d hoped in vain that sleeping with them would ease that sick desire always clawing at his insides, but more than that, it’d been a pathetic way to gain Dean’s approval, fishing for that low whistle and filthy grin, the clap on his shoulder, the pride in his voice as he’d say, _damn, Sammy, that’s my boy_. 

Dean rubs a hand over his face, stares back at Sam, astonishment clear in his eyes. “God, Sammy, I— All the girls I slept with, they were just— a way to distract myself from the one thing I thought I could never have. A way to convince myself I wasn’t completely screwed in the head. I never found a better way to deal with— with wanting you the way I do.” 

“Made me so jealous,” Sam says, his hands coming up to Dean’s chest on their own accord, fingers twisting into the fabric of his open flannel. “Even though I knew they meant nothing to you, I still felt so fucking jealous. Wanted you to be mine. Only mine.” 

“Sammy,” Dean says, cupping his face in his hands, “I _am_ yours. You’ve always had me wrapped around your little finger, from the moment you were born. You _have_ me, Sammy.” 

Dean’s eyes are wide open. Everything about him seems to be. He keeps his eyes locked with Sam’s, not averting them the way he so often does, finally, finally letting Sam really see inside, no longer hiding. 

“Dean,” Sam croaks, “please,” and Dean’s eyes flicker to his mouth, just before he leans in and kisses him. Dean’s so— _gentle_, so careful as he slowly works Sam’s mouth open with those soft, plush lips, like Sam’s something fragile, something precious that needs to be handled with care, and God if it isn’t leaving Sam lightheaded. His hands are so warm and strong and he smells so good and he tastes so much like _Dean_ that Sam’s struggling to take it all in. He feels drowsy in an almost feverish sort of way as he kisses Dean back, barely knows what he’s doing, just chasing the feeling of Dean’s gentle, tender mouth against his. His stubble is rough, prickling a little against Sam’s lips and clean-shaven cheeks, and it’s keeping Sam right there with Dean, keeps him from slipping into unconsciousness. He’s tightened his fingers into the fabric of Dean’s flannel, tugging hard, pulling his big brother closer. Dean’s murmuring against his lips, “shh, Sammy, ‘m not goin’ anywhere,” and then it’s as if his brain shuts off and he can finally let go of all the thoughts in his head that kept him in a stranglehold of fear and shame for so long. 

Dean’s hands have left his face. They’re sliding down his chest, slipping under his shirt. He’s touched Sam there before, checking for injuries, stitching up wounds on his chest and stomach, washing Sam when he couldn’t do it himself, but his hands have never felt so good on Sam’s skin, so right. He whines softly at Dean’s touch, the way Dean keeps kissing him with gentle little nibbles, and only when Dean pulls back to look at him does he get a little embarrassed. 

Dean smiles at him, the lines around his mouth and eyes crinkling in a way Sam wishes they would more often, and then Dean’s mouth is back on his, harder than before, tongue coming out to part Sam’s lips and Sam opens up for him, lets his big brother take what he wants. 

Sam’s helplessly clutching at Dean’s chest as his brother takes charge. He feels so overwhelmed, so far gone that he barely knows what to do with himself. He’s losing control over his body, can’t keep still, fingers twitching, thighs shaking, hips stuttering up against Dean’s, and— _oh_, Dean’s just as hard as he is, the shape of him firmly pressing against Sam. 

Sam moans, lips parting, and Dean takes the opportunity to bite into his lower lip, then sucks it into his mouth, soothing the ache. Sam’s trying hard to control his movements, to slowly grind against Dean, but he’s just frantically moving his hips, the way he used to hump his pillow at fourteen, thinking of his big brother. 

Dean’s all over him, kissing along his jaw, his neck, his hands sliding under his shirt, up his sides, down his stomach. Sam’s barely keeping up, everything about Dean is so fucking overwhelming that Sam can only helplessly clutch his fingers into his brother’s flannel and not let go, but he’s gonna kiss Dean back until his lips are raw and his jaw is sore and aching, until his lungs give out. 

Dean drags his hands down, grabs Sam’s hips and pulls him in. “Fuck, Sammy,” he groans as his hips grind against Sam’s, his mouth still close, breath hot and wet against his cheek. He kisses Sam again, and he marvels at how swollen Dean’s lips already feel. His hips are stuttering up against Dean’s uncontrollably, no rhythm to it, just helplessly seeking more friction. He’s panting hard into Dean’s mouth every time they rub against each other just right. Dean worms a hand between them, presses his palm against Sam’s aching dick through the fabric of his sweats. 

“Christ, Sammy,” he breathes, cupping the swell of it, “fuckin’ huge, little brother.” 

Sam whines Dean’s name, mindlessly bucking up against his hand, into the warm soft curve of Dean’s palm. Dean kisses him again, hard, and fuck, Sam’s never been so turned on in his life. He doesn’t really _lose_ himself, normally— he’s never before felt like everything around him just falls away, never felt this mind-numbing, all-consuming haze of arousal before. Ages ago, when he had been all hopped up on demon blood, that felt close. He still remembers how drinking blood made him bliss out, but at the same time, deep in his bones, it felt dirty, wrong. Even more so afterwards, when the rush had worn off. _This_, this ought to feel wrong, Sam thinks, but it doesn’t. Not in the slightest. Not when Dean wants it, too. 

All his shame was anchored in the fear of Dean’s rejection, he realizes, in the conviction that Dean was everything good and pure, the perfect son and the perfect brother, who would be disgusted to have a brother as sick and screwed in the head as Sam. That he would be disappointed in Sam. Knowing that Dean wants this too, that Sam hasn’t disappointed him, makes most of the shame fall away, just like that. 

He feels Dean’s hands slipping below the waistband of his sweatpants and boxers, rough and a little sweaty on his bare skin. “Wanna see you,” Dean murmurs against his lips, and then he’s tugging Sam’s sweats and boxers down and Sam’s dick slaps against his stomach. 

“God_damn_, Sammy,” Dean groans, “fuckin’ huge, baby boy. Sex god body, just like I said,” and Sam blushes like an idiot, at a loss for words. Dean hasn’t called him baby boy since— since they were in high school, probably, when Dean had gotten all tall and muscular and Sam was still a scrawny little thing, their age difference so very noticeable, and Dean couldn’t waste the opportunity to tease Sam about it. 

“Don’t gotta be shy about it,” Dean grins, and then he wraps his hand around Sam’s dick and Sam can feel the pull in his stomach, so hard it nearly knocks him out. For years and years he’s been imagining what it’d feel like. Still, he’s not prepared for what it awakens inside of him, how violently his body reacts to it, like his blood’s suddenly pumping through his body the wrong way, deoxygenated blood flowing back through his arteries, leaving his body starving, organs struggling for breath in dead air, searching for one viable, heaving gasp. He’s trembling all over, the muscles in his thighs and stomach quivering uncontrollably, and the most embarrassing little sounds keep slipping past his lips, no matter how hard he tries to keep himself under control. 

Dean starts to jack him slow but firm, his touch not shy at all. It’s so very much _him_, so bold and self-assured, like he knows exactly what Sam needs, like he knows he’s the only one who can give Sam what he’s wanted all his life. 

“Sammy,” Dean murmurs when another string of pathetic little noises escape Sam, “it’s okay, you can let go, baby brother, just let go. Gonna make you feel good.” 

The way he’s talking is completely fucking Sam up, hitting all his buttons, and fuck, maybe it shouldn’t surprise Sam that his big brother knows just how to make him come undone, but he never even dared to believe they’d really get this far, let alone Dean would give him exactly what he needs. He’s so hard in Dean’s hand, dripping precoma, and Dean rubs the pad of his thumb over the head, smears it around. With his other hand, Dean pulls his shirt up, exposing more of him. 

“God, look at you,” he says, completely in awe. Their foreheads press together as they both glance down at Dean’s hand wrapped around Sam’s cock, at the muscles in Sam’s stomach jumping under his skin as he’s being jerked off by his big brother, and Dean places his free hand on Sam’s belly, fingertips tracing the lines of Sam’s hard abs. 

Sam whimpers, involuntarily sucking in his stomach, and Dean lets out a soft laugh, starts jacking him a little faster. “Lemme take care of you, Sammy,” Dean murmurs, then presses his mouth closer to Sam’s, suckles at Sam’s lower lip. 

Sam’s so blissed out from the way Dean’s touching him that he can’t properly kiss him back, his mouth slack, lips parted, but Dean doesn’t seem to mind, keeps licking into his open mouth and softly biting into his lower lip. Sam’s trembling fingers have left Dean’s chest and found his belt instead, uselessly plucking at the worn leather and the buckle. He’s aching to touch Dean, to feel his dick in his hands, but his fingers don’t seem to be working properly, knuckles bumping into the soft skin of Dean’s belly as he fruitlessly tries to work his belt open. 

“What do you want, Sammy,” Dean murmurs, and Sam feels his lips twisting into a smirk against his mouth. “Wanna touch my dick?” 

He keeps knocking the air out of Sam’s lungs with the things he says. Sam can only nod, dumbfounded. Dean’s hand leaves his dick and he scoots back an inch or two, works his pants open with quick fingers. He’s glancing up at Sam as he slowly pulls the zipper of his jeans down, says, “C’mon, little brother, ‘s all yours.” 

Sam eyes the thick bulge in Dean’s underwear. He tentatively touches the waistband of his boxers, then reaches inside with shaky fingers, brings his dick out. He feels dazed at the feeling of Dean’s length in his hand, so hard and hot all because of this, because of _him. _For a moment he barely knows what to do with it, just holds it in his hand, but then muscle memory from his lifelong dreams kicks in and he starts to stroke his brother, eyes transfixed on the thick length of him sliding through his palm, the tip so pretty pink and gleaming with precome that Sam’s mouth waters at the sight of it. 

“Fuck, yeah, Sammy,” Dean groans, his fingers curling into Sam’s shirt, “that’s it, baby boy.” Sam’s trying to focus on jerking him just right, but Dean hauls his shirt up higher, exposing his chest, and Sam feels his eyes roam all over him, from his hard cock to his flushed chest, up to his face, and he can barely concentrate with Dean looking at him like that, when he must be able to read everything Sam’s ever tried to hide from him off his face. 

“Dean,” he croaks, still a tiny bit insecure, still feeling a twinge of embarrassment for how bad he wants his brother, for how much every little thing Dean does sets him off, even now, when he knows Dean wants it too. 

Sam looks up at Dean, meets his eyes, and Sam’s embarrassment must be clear on his face, because Dean smiles that fond smile he sometimes gets, when Sam does something particularly little brother-like, and he says, “Not gonna be shy about it now, are you, Sammy?” and Sam ducks his head, feels himself blushing again. 

Dean grins, leans in again, brushes their noses together. “Just wanna have a look at you, now that I’m finally allowed,” he murmurs against Sam’s lips. “Wanna see that pretty body of yours.” 

Sam whimpers, and Dean leans in to steal a quick kiss, then places a hand on Sam’s chest. He palms his pecs a little, then drags his hand down Sam’s stomach, fingers trailing through the coarse hair there. He gets a hand back on Sam’s dick, smearing the precome dripping from Sam’s slit around the head before he starts stroking him again. Sam’s eyes flutter closed, his grip waning around Dean’s dick, fingers twitching. He’s trying, but he can barely keep a steady rhythm going, not while every little thing Dean does or says brings him closer to falling apart at the seams. 

“Just let me,” Dean says, nudging against his hand. Sam lets go of his dick, pushes his hands under Dean’s shirt instead, fingers digging into his chest as Dean wraps his hand around their lengths and starts slowly fisting both of them. The press of Dean’s dick against his makes his thighs and belly tingle, the tight warm grip of his hand so fucking good he’s not gonna be able to hold out much longer. He can’t keep his hips still, keeps bucking up into Dean’s fist, chasing the warmth of his hand, the press of his dick. 

“That’s it, Sammy,” Dean murmurs, “just let your big brother take care of it, huh?” He’s rubbing the pad of his thumb over the tip of Sam’s dick again, where Sam just keeps leaking precome. “Gettin’ wet like a girl,” Dean says, and Sam whines, hides his face against his big brother’s neck. Dean just starts jacking them faster. Sam’s panting hard, his blunt nails digging into Dean’s chest in a poor attempt to keep himself from coming undone. 

“Gonna come like this, aren’t you, Sammy,” Dean says, tightening his hand around their cocks a little. “Wanna see it, baby boy. Wanna see you lose it for your big brother.” 

Dean’s worming his other arm under Sam’s body, reaching around him. He rests his hand on the swell of Sam’s bare ass. Sam’s breath hitches, muscles clenching involuntarily. He arches his back and Dean slides his hand down a little, dips a finger between Sam’s cheeks. Sam shudders, smothers his whimpering in the crook of Dean’s neck. He can’t believe Dean can tell what he likes already, seeing through him so fast, steadily tearing all Sam’s walls down. There’s nothing Sam could ever keep from him now, and frankly, he doesn’t even want to. If this is what he gets from openness, he’ll never lay even a single brick between them again. 

“You like that, don’t you, Sammy,” Dean murmurs, “like having your ass played with, huh,” and Sam can only nod, keeps his face buried in the warm, safe crook of Dean’s neck. Dean has found his hole now, rubbing softly, barely applying any pressure, and _fuck_, he can’t believe Dean’s touching him there, making him dizzy with lust, can’t believe Dean might actually want— 

“I’ve been thinking about it,” Dean says, his voice rough as he keeps jacking their dicks so fucking good, keeps teasing Sam’s hole, “been thinking about it for way too long, about— touching you there. Getting inside you. Fucking my little brother,” and Sam loses it, his whole body rippling and shaking as he unloads, his hole clenching hard. His hips are stuttering up into Dean’s fist and back against Dean’s finger, his body still chasing the friction, his fingers helplessly clutching at Dean’s chest. 

“That’s it, Sammy,” he coaxes. He wraps his hand around Sam’s dick completely, milking every last drop of come out of him. He’s nuzzling Sam’s face, kisses his open, panting mouth. Once the waves of Sam’s orgasm have settled and his body goes lax, Dean scoops him up in his arms, pulls him closer, pressing their foreheads together. 

“Came pretty good, huh,” Dean says, grinning, glancing down between them. Sam follows his gaze and— Christ, sees the mess he made. He came all over Dean’s fist, their stomachs, his own chest. Dean’s still hard, ropes of Sam’s come dripping down the pretty pink length of him. 

“Dean,” Sam brings out, still a little breathless, “if you wanna— you can.” He takes Dean’s hand, guides it back between his legs, and Dean swears under his breath, but he shakes his head. 

“God, Sammy, you know I want to, want it so freakin’ bad, but— not now, okay? Look at you, you’re still shaking all over, barely holding it together. Your body’s probably beyond exhausted.” He leans in again, kisses the slight twinge of disappointment in the pit of Sam’s stomach away. “If I’m gonna fuck you, I wanna take my time with you,” he says, “wanna make it real good for you, baby boy.” 

Sam’s heart jumps at the sudden thought that there’s gonna be a next time. God, he’d never even thought beyond all this. It’s hard to believe that at thirty-three, he’ll have his biggest fantasy come true. 

Dean’s sticky hands are roaming his body and he’s nuzzling Sam’s sweaty face. “I just wanna—” he starts, a hand on Sam’s ass, “Just— turn around for me, Sammy, would ya? Just lay down for me, baby boy,” and Sam does as he’s told, turns on his other side. He hears Dean spitting, hears him slicking his cock, and then Dean grabs his hip, pulls him in, his ass flush to Dean’s dick. God, just the press of him there is enough to makes his spent dick twitch again, makes him so fucking eager for what’s within reach now, for what he thought he’d never have. 

“Fuck, Sammy,” Dean groans as his dick slides into the cleft of Sam’s ass. Sam cants his hips, pushes his ass back against Dean to give him more friction. They’re still mostly dressed. Dean’s jeans aren’t even pulled halfway down, his belt buckle digging into Sam’s thigh every time his hips buck against Sam’s ass. Dean wraps an arm tight around his shoulder, holding him close as he speeds up, grinding hard and desperate between his cheeks, against Sam’s clenching hole. The anticipation he feels is maddening, and he almost cries out for Dean to just do it, just push inside him, but he knows Dean won’t give in to his irrational, helpless little-brother-pleas. Instead, Sam’s babbling into the pillow, a litany of things he’s only heard himself say in his dreams before. 

“Can’t wait to get inside you,” Dean grits out, “gonna take it so fuckin’ good for me, aren’t you, Sammy,” and Sam whines, pushing back hard against Dean. Dean’s hips stutter, his grip around Sam’s shoulder faltering and Sam feels him pulsing warm and wet between his cheeks, streaking the swell of his ass, his lower back. It’s crazy how good it feels, how dirty and obscene but so fucking hot at the same time, his brother marking him like that, claiming him like Sam’s always wanted him to. 

Dean rides it out, his cock gliding through the slick mess between Sam’s cheeks, and Sam just lies there, completely blissed out as he lets his big brother use his exhausted body. 

“Christ,” Dean groans when he’s caught his breath, “so good for me, Sammy,” and it’s insane what Dean’s praise does to him, how much it’s making his stomach flutter and his thighs tingle. 

Sam feels him pulling away a little, and then he’s tugging on Sam’s shoulder, making him roll over again. “Look at you,” he says, lips twitching into a soft smile. They’re all sticky and gross. Dean sits up a little and tugs off his flannel, uses it to wipe their stomachs. He reaches over, quickly wipes away most of the mess on Sam’s ass, between his cheeks. The spunk-soaked shirt gets thrown to the floor, and Dean lies back on his side. He tucks Sam’s dick back into his boxers, and Sam lifts his hips so his brother can tug his sweatpants up as well, reveling in the way his brother is taking care of him. Dean smooths Sam’s shirt back down, then pulls his own shirt down as well and his boxers up, quickly tugs his own jeans off and drops them on the floor. He settles back into the mattress, facing Sam. His hand finds Sam’s hip, squeezing lightly, reassuringly. Sam smiles faintly at him. It’s all he can manage. He feels exhausted, tired to the bone. Dean nuzzles Sam’s face again, kisses him softly, but Sam’s too sleepy to really kiss him back. 

“Dean,” he mumbles, “I— you—,” and there’s so much he wants to say, so much he wants to ask, but his throat won’t form any coherent sounds and his mouth won’t move. He’s no longer sure what he wanted to say, anyway, slowly floating away from the mess in his head. 

“Sleep now, Sammy,” Dean says softly. His gentle, calming voice has always been Sam’s favorite lullaby. “I’m not going anywhere. I won’t disappear. I’ll still be here when you wake up.” 

_I love you_, Sam wants to say, though it has never felt more redundant. 

Dean says it anyway.


	4. The Nature of Reality

  
The first thing he becomes aware of when he surfaces again is Dean’s presence. They’re still pressed close together, Dean’s arm around his waist, their legs intertwined. Dean’s so warm, and Sam feels so good, so calm that he almost, _almost_ thinks he’s hallucinating again, but then he feels something digging into his side, and— oh, the amulet. He’d completely forgotten about it after their confessions. After they— yeah. He moves a little, reaches underneath himself, and as his fingers close around the little brass head, relief settles in his chest. He snuggles closer to Dean, keeps the amulet in his hand, pressed between their bodies. He watches his brother’s closed eyes and slightly parted lips, drinking in the sight of him, his relaxed features softly illuminated by the light from the lamp on the bedside table, still switched on. Fondness blossoms inside his chest and Sam can’t help himself, nuzzles against Dean’s face. Dean stirs a little, eyelashes fluttering as he murmurs Sam’s name, and then he slowly blinks his eyes open.

“G’back t’sleep, Sammy,” he mumbles when he sees Sam’s awake, but Sam shakes his head, slips his free hand under Dean’s shirt, pressing his palm flat to his brother’s chest. The slow beating of his heart under Sam’s hand is another reminder that he’s really here with Sam, alive and well. It might take a while, Sam realizes, until the surreality of it wears off, until he stops feeling like Dean might slip away any minute. 

“Just wanna look at you for a little while,” he says, and Dean doesn’t complain, but he doesn’t go back to sleep either, keeps his eyes locked with Sam’s. They’re dark in the dim light, but not so dark that Sam doesn’t recognize them anymore. Sam just looks, relishing the feeling of not having to avert his gaze. Lets his mind wander back to what they did earlier. His body feels heavy and sore, but in a sort of pleasant, satisfying way. His mind is relatively quiet as well, his thoughts a little more organized than they were before. 

“How long,” Sam asks eventually, “I mean— since when,” and Dean sucks his lower lip into his mouth, briefly closes his eyes. Sam waits. Savors the feeling of Dean’s heart beating against his palm. Wonders idly if he’ll ever get his fill of looking at his beautiful big brother. 

“Way too long,” Dean says eventually. He keeps his eyes on Sam’s, but he doesn’t elaborate. 

Sam’s gonna let it rest, gonna be a good little brother and go back to sleep, but then Dean says, “I mean, it’s fucked up enough as it is, right. But you’ve always been— Dad shoved you into my arms, and from then on it’s been my task to take care of you, to watch out for you.” He pauses, clears his throat a little. “Except I didn’t view it as a _job_, but— as my purpose, I guess. You’ve always been the only person that ever truly mattered to me, the only one I could love with all my heart. You— you were all I had. I mean, Dad, he— you know how much I looked up to him. How much I loved him. But I— deep down, I just always felt like I wasn’t good enough. I tried to do what he expected of me. He told me to feed you, bathe you, to keep an eye on you all day, even when he was there. And I did all that. I never complained. But he also told me not to dote on you so much, not to go soft on you. Said I shouldn’t spoil you.” 

He rubs a hand over his face, stares past Sam. “I was barely ten years old. How was I supposed to know what exactly he expected of me? I didn’t fully understand what _keeping_ _you_ _safe_ meant. So I just, I don’t know, tried to find my way. Did what I thought Dad expected of me, tried to give you what you needed. I guess I tried to be both your mom and your brother, but I didn’t really know how to be either.” 

If there’s one thing Sam resents their dad for, it’s how he harmed Dean. The mixed signals he gave Dean, the unrealistic expectations he had of his brother. How even when Dean did meet them, he didn’t give him the praise and love he so badly sought. How much he put on Dean’s shoulders. How he always bossed Dean around, expecting him to obey, obey, obey. 

“And I just— I didn’t really know how to have a normal relationship with someone. With anyone. ‘Cause with Dad, I mean, I know he cared about me, and I loved him, but I— I know it wasn’t normal, the way he treated us, a-and how much he put on my shoulders.” 

The boy who carries the weight of the world. Sam tends to forget that, sometimes, how responsible for everything Dean truly feels— for Sam, for the people they’ve met along the way, for _mankind_. Knows that to be able to forget about that is the blessing of being the younger sibling. 

“He wasn’t fair to you, Dean,” Sam says quietly. “The way he treated you— It wasn’t fair. You didn’t deserve that. I know it must’ve been tough for him, hunting for evil, hell-bent on avenging Mom’s death while raising two kids, and I don’t blame him for wanting revenge, for sucking us into this life, not anymore. But it doesn’t justify what he put on you. He should’ve known better. And he should’ve been there for you when you needed him most.” 

Had Sam said that their dad wasn’t fair to Dean ten years ago, Dean would’ve denied it, would’ve defended him. But he’s quiet, now, staring past Sam, like he’s slowly letting Sam’s words sink in. 

Over the years, Sam’s always wished certain things had been different. There’d even been times he wished he’d never been born. If he hadn’t been born, his mom wouldn’t have burned, his dad wouldn’t have sought revenge, and Dean would’ve had a normal childhood. These days, Sam’s more selfish. He’s glad to be alive. Grateful he gets to spend his life with his brother by his side. But sometimes, he wishes they weren’t four years apart. Wishes Dean hadn’t had to take care of him the way he did. That they could’ve leaned on each other, carry the weight of John’s crusade for revenge together. 

“I didn’t— at the time,” Dean says, “I didn’t really think about the way he treated me. I mean, it _was_ normal. At least to me. I barely remembered a dad who didn’t— who didn’t tell me what to do all the time, who didn’t just expect me not to question anything. But even back then, I had this feeling in my gut sometimes, that he expected the impossible of me, a-and that I couldn’t live up to that.” Sam sees his jaw clench, sees him swallowing hard. He presses his hand a little firmer against Dean’s chest, wishing he could take that ever-remaining heaviness in his brother’s heart away with just a touch.  
  
“How much I cared about you, how far I would go for you, that always felt right,” Dean says, looking back at Sam now. “Like it was how I was expected to feel, who I was expected to be. But when I was ten, eleven, maybe, I realized that the way I always took care of you, what much you meant to me, was different from how other siblings treated each other, from how they felt about each other. And when I got older, I knew the way I started seeing you, the way I loved you wasn’t okay. I mean, there were so many things we did growing up that weren’t normal, but I knew that even Dad would draw the line there.”  
  
Instinctively, Sam had felt the same. For as long as he can remember, he knew they weren’t like other siblings. Knew that even though Dad wanted Dean to take care of him, there was an aspect to it that he didn’t like, that made them too dependent on each other. 

“Dean, I felt the same,” he says. “I’ve always felt the same. What you are to me— how much you mean to me— it could only be you. There’s just no way I could ever love anyone else as much as I love you. And even as a kid, I knew that how I felt about you wasn’t okay. Even before I truly realized I was in love with you, I knew in my bones that it was wrong, that Dad wouldn’t have it. Only when you— when you became interested in girls, I recognized it for what it was. I was so jealous of them. And I told myself it was only logical, because suddenly, I didn’t get your full attention anymore, but deep down I knew I was jealous because they got to have a part of you I wasn’t allowed to have. And I was devastated. More than I was jealous, I was hurt. I know how selfish that was. You always gave me everything. But to not always be the center of your world anymore— that hurt.” 

“I knew I was hurting you,” Dean whispers. “I knew what I was doing, but I felt like I didn’t have much of a choice. When I realized I wanted you in ways I shouldn’t, I was terrified that you would start to see it too. That Dad would find out as well. Hell, I thought maybe he already knew. Thought that maybe that was the reason why nothing I did was ever good enough. So I tried to find a way to cope, to hide how I felt from you and Dad. And those girls— It was so easy. They just— they were always there. Whatever shithole we stayed in, whatever crappy diner we stopped by, there’d always be a girl lookin’ at me, or tellin’ me how cute I was, or whatever, and I just played along. I thought Dad approved. That he was proud, even. And their compliments— I know how shallow it was, but I— I enjoyed their praise and approval. Even if it was just about my looks.”  
  
Sam silently curses himself for never even considering that, for never fully understanding just how bad his brother needed the approval back then. For not seeing the ways Dean would seek to get that approval when being a good, obedient son wasn’t enough. And after all these years, Sam can finally recall his seventeen-year-old brother flirting with a pretty waitress at a diner somewhere down south, all while Dad and he were sitting in the same boot, without feeling sick with jealousy. Can recall his big brother giving their dad a broad smile after the waitress had left her number on a napkin and feel a sense of pity for him instead. Still, he wishes he could have been the one to give him what he needed. 

“I hated it,” Sam says, drawing his hand back from under Dean’s shirt, clutching his fingers into the fabric, pulling. “I hated that I didn’t have you to myself anymore. I couldn’t stand watching you kiss them, couldn’t stand to see their hands all over you, touching you like you belonged to them.” 

“God, Sammy, then how do you think I felt about the girls you started a new life with,” Dean rasps, “not to mention freakin’ _Ruby_.” 

“Don’t act like I’m the only one who ran off with a demon,” Sam says, petulant. 

“It wasn’t like that,” Dean says, “it was _Crowley_, man. And I wasn’t myself. You know that.” 

“Neither was I,” Sam says, “after your deal came through. Neither was I. Every single time I had to go on without you, all the months, _years_ I spent without you, I didn’t feel like myself.” 

He spent so many years running, hiding. He regrets it, now, all the times he chose to stay away from Dean for whatever reason. Regrets collaborating with Ruby, getting under her thumb despite Dean’s warnings, regrets teaming up with Samuel and the others when he’d lost his soul. Some days, he even regrets leaving for Stanford. But more than anything, he regrets not looking for Dean when he was in Purgatory, instead burying his head in the sand, because the thought that Dean might still be alive but not knowing how to bring him back, not even knowing _what_ to bring him back from was too much to bear. 

He couldn’t do it again. He spent half a year without his brother after Gabriel took Dean from him, thinking he could teach Sam a lesson; six months that never really happened, and yet he can still recall how numb he felt, how dead inside. The only thing that kept him going was the thought of taking revenge on Gabriel, to make him pay for playing with his brother’s life, for forcing Sam to spend his without him. 

“Feel like I haven’t been myself for ages,” Dean says, not quite looking at Sam. His hands have found Sam’s hand, the one still clutching around the amulet. He’s looking down at Sam’s scraped knuckles now, his thumb stroking just below them. “Ever since you jumped down that hole and left me behind. Maybe even longer.” 

Ever since Hell, Sam thinks. Ever since Hell, Dean hasn’t been quite the same. Whatever naivety and lightheartedness Dean still had at twenty-nine, Alastair took away from him. Sam hadn’t been able to do a damn thing about it. He couldn’t keep the hellhounds from ripping his brother to shreds, and he failed to get Dean topside again. Every single day Sam spend trying to no avail to get his brother out, Dean was suffering. Four months. Four months until he was saved, even longer down there, and Sam will never not be grateful to Castiel for pulling his brother out, but a part of him had died there, at Alastair’s hands, and killing him never quite made up for what he’d taken from Dean. 

“Then Purgatory, the Mark, my demon days,” Dean says, “and then Amara trying to lure me in, having me almost hypnotized. I’m sick of being anyone’s plaything.” 

They’re both tired of it. Doesn’t matter who’s pulling the strings, whether it be the angels, Alastair, Lucifer or Toni, or whoever will cross their path next. 

“I’m only just starting to be myself again,” Dean whispers. “I’m tryin’, at least.” 

“I just don’t want to lose you again,” Sam says quietly. “Not to the Mark, not to Crowley, not to Amara. Not to anyone else. I’m done with helplessly watching you turn into somebody you’re not. I just— I just want us to be ourselves.” He sits up, the duvet falling down around his hips. Dean’s watching him, frowning, seemingly a little confused at Sam’s sudden determination. 

“I don’t want to hide this from you anymore,” Sam says, opening his palm, showing Dean the amulet. 

Dean’s eyes focus on the brass ornament, and something in his face softens. He sits up too, reaches out, touches the little head. “Can’t believe you held onto it for all those years,” he says, his voice a little rough, and Sam can tell what he’s really saying—that he can’t believe Sam never lost faith in _him_, in _them_. 

Sam shrugs. “It’s special. Just like Bobby said.” 

“Didn’t think it’d actually work,” Dean says quietly. He closes his hand around the amulet, closes his eyes for a brief moment. 

“That’s not why it’s special.” 

Dean gives him a confused look. Something in Sam unravels, and he can’t help but smile at his brother. The heavy, anxious lump in the pit of his stomach has disappeared, he realizes, and he feels like he’s soaring, lighter than he’s felt in years. 

_I don’t need a symbol to remind me how I feel about my brother_, Sam heard him say to Marie. And he doesn’t, Sam knows that. Knows that what he means to Dean is carved into his brother’s bones. Nothing could ever eradicate that. But the amulet is the only tangible evidence of their love that they possess. Just holding it in his hand anchors Sam, reminds him of who he is, of his place in this world. Maybe the amulet can do the same for Dean. 

He opens the leather cord into a circle, and Dean’s already leaning in a little, lets Sam slip it over his head. Dean wraps his hand around the amulet again, holds it to his chest. His eyes are closed and his breathing’s a little heavy, but when he looks up at Sam, he smiles, blinking the tears that have gathered in the corners of his eyes away. Sam leans in, presses a soft kiss to his brother’s lips. He puts his hand on top of Dean’s, squeezes it, holding both their hands firmly pressed to his brother’s chest, the amulet secured in their palms. 

“It’s a reminder,” Sam says, “of who you really are. Of who you are to me. That this,” he says, gesturing between them, “is real.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I’ve been writing fic in the spn fandom for about two years now, and I never dared to write a late season first time wincest fic until now. The amount of canon that I thought had to be included used to scare me. [Embee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eacc22/pseuds/motelsamndean) pointed out that I didn’t have to include everything, that I could basically pick those aspects that fit the story I wanted to tell. Still, I do hope I did the boys justice. Although this fic was written from Sam’s POV, I really wanted to focus on Dean’s issues as well, and intertwine them with Sam’s issues. I hope it worked out.
> 
> I already mentioned Embee— I really can’t thank her enough for beta reading the whole damn thing. I’d never written a 20k fic in English before, and I wouldn't have managed without her. She really helped me improve and made me look more critically at my own writing. All remaining mistakes are mine. I will go over this again in a month or so and look at it with fresh eyes.
> 
> Then about the inspiration for this fic— Instead of coming up with a proper summary, I used a quote by sociologists William Isaac Thomas and Dorothy Swaine Thomas, known as the Thomas theorem. It is a theory which states that one’s interpretation of a situation influences the outcome of that situation. I've wanted to use that concept in a fic for a long time. The idea for this fic came to me after rewatching 12x02. As said before, I think the writers failed to properly address Sam’s experiences while being held captive and his state of mind afterwards. While held in that basement, he believed Dean was dead, and he didn't know what happened to Cas. He was tortured and his mind was violated; he hallucinated again. I wanted to examine what effects all that could have on Sam, especially with the Thomas theorem in mind.
> 
> The reality vs hallucinations (illusions, dreams…) thing is something I’ve wanted to write about for a long time. It wasn’t really inspired by the Oasis song I used as a title for this fic— in fact, the song doesn’t really reflect the idea of the fic. The verses at the beginning of the prologue and chapter three are taken from the song _Do You Believe in Shame?_ by Duran Duran. It’s one of their best.
> 
> Thanks again for reading this fic and these ridiculously long end notes. If you want to support me, I'd very much appreciate it if you'd reblog the [tumblr post](https://saintedevote.tumblr.com/post/188434104339/the-nature-of-reality-by-ferrera-pairing-dean) to this fic.


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